


unyielding principle

by demios



Series: unyielding principle [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Dark Knight Week 2020, Fluff, Friendship... I think, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Sharing a Body, Tank Role Quest Spoilers, ambiguous WoL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Writing collection for Dark Knight Week 2020 ;— Day 7: Legacy“This isn’t my legacy. All I did was leave behind a skewered corpse and a crystal.”
Relationships: Fray Myste/Sidurgu Orl, Fray Myste/Warrior of Light
Series: unyielding principle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013856
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	1. sins / salvation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking part in DRK week! Prompts can be found @drkweek on Twitter.
> 
> These are unbeta'd due to time constraints, so I apologize for any mistakes beforehand!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Sins / Salvation
> 
> “Sins are what make us mortal.” Granson continues, “They’re what sets us apart from the forgiven. If we didn't sin every now and then, we’d be no better than those monsters who do naught but feed and slaughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granson and Fray , Gen/Friendship (maybe?), Tank Role Quest spoilers, some headcanoned First lore

“How much do you know?” Fray asks, eyes narrowing.

The glow of lanterns overhead partially drowns out the golden hue that creeps into their irises. The number of adventurers scattered around the tables of the Wandering Stairs dwindled with the return of the night, but it still remained fairly lively with the regular bounty hunters. A shame, Fray thinks. There is the possibility of causing an unnecessary scene even at their half-obscured table.

Not that they fully intend to cause one - in fact, it would be better if they didn’t smear the warrior of darkness’ reputation while they were half-absent. The warrior’s consciousness is tucked away in one corner of their mind, warm and sluggish from the partially drained bottle of wine set before them. The abyss cradles them in their deserved rest and Fray settles imperfectly under their skin. In truth, they did not mean to surface, but Granson seems unbothered by the sudden change in conversation partners. He seems to have expected it, even. 

“Fray, right?” He cocks his head towards them. “They’ve told me a bit about you.”

Fray’s mouth presses into a firm line. The warrior rarely divulged anything about themself, let alone the companions taking up space in their soul. Most would look at them like a three-headed goobbue if they said anything of the sort, yet the hunter sitting across from them is too unfazed for their liking. “Is that all?”

“I saw you fight alongside us when we laid Dikaiosyne to rest.” Granson replies simply with a shrug. “I was curious, so I asked. They told me you’re a friend.”

Fray internally scoffs.  _ A friend, a mentor, a shadow _ \- they are privy to all these mantles and more, but they suppose there was never a way to truly describe their precarious existence. Still, they cannot deny the term causes a vague warmth to bloom in their chest. It heartens them to know their other half did not see them as a burden when they had been nigh useless, all but scorched away by blinding light.

“Pleasantries aside, have you sinned lately? If nothing here strikes your fancy,” Granson motions to the modest dishes ordered half a bell earlier, “then I can flag Cyella down again-”

“If you’re trying to win me over with food, know that I’m not as simple as they are.” Fray bristles minutely - suspicion colors their gaze when they cannot discern his intentions. The last thing they want is the warrior getting dragged into another harebrained hunt.

“Well, perhaps I am.” He absently rubs the back of his neck. “But it’s a Vrandtic custom, too. I know you and the Warrior of Darkness aren’t from here, so I thought I’d treat you.”

Fray raises a brow. They hadn’t cared to learn the intricacies of the First when their soul was being torn apart.

“Sins are what make us mortal.” Granson continues when he notices their puzzled expression. “They’re what sets us apart from the forgiven. If we didn't sin every now and then, we’d be no better than those monsters who do naught but feed and slaughter.”

Part of them understands, while the other doesn’t. They lean back and cross their arms. “Where I’m from, a man would do anything to be forgiven.”

Their thoughts drift to the cold embrace of the Ishgard. Seeking out holy, glorious, light would purge a soul of mortal taints and grant even the most unfortunate wretch a place in Halone’s Halls - highborn and lowborn alike were raised on such a mantra. Though Fray never found solace in the grace of the Fury, they harbored a lingering guilt that welled up through the cracks when their faithlessness faltered. In those rare moments they could not help but think of their own sins; was it possible to be absolved of them, when every breath they drew went against the will of the See? Death hardly seemed to do the trick - not when they still clung to cracked crystal and wisps of aether after the Fury passed judgement on them. 

Over the course of this strange journey, they made their peace with the burden. Myste was proof of that. But to revel in it? They cannot imagine bearing it as anything other than a solemn duty.

“Norvrandt used to be that way, too, before the Flood.” Granson nods thoughtfully. “Folks tried to sustain those teachings but with the war against the eaters? They didn’t just want to survive, they wanted to  _ live.” _

The words mildly pique Fray’s interest. Ompagne said something similar during the muddled days of their apprenticeship. The concept was foreign to them when they spent their every waking moment scrounging about the Brume to make it another day. To survive was enough - there was no need to make it a joyous occasion when dragonspit was constantly raining over their heads.

“Some felt it wasn’t right to be celebrating when eaters claimed their allies. So it was called a necessary sin, and people learned to embrace it. Of course, Eulmore retreated into those pleasures for the wrong reasons when they gave up on the war. Those of us in Wright lived modest lives, but without the occasional indulgence, I’d reckon we’d lose sight of why we were struggling in the first place.” Granson’s gaze lowers for a brief moment, and they can tell he’s trying to believe his own words again.

They vaguely know his story. A man who had his home torn apart by eaters, who bore the burden of living when those he loved died. He thought he had no choice but to harden and hollow his heart for the sake of revenge. Perhaps he saw a sliver of the darkness he almost succumbed to in their companion’s shadow; Fray, admittedly, saw a passing likeness to their past self in his reckless desire to make sense of his lot.

Flickers of the past surface in their periphery as they silently contemplate his explanation. Nothing grandiose or heroically tragic, but mundane scenes they didn’t expect to be carved into the face of their soul crystal. 

_ Ompagne unveiling an entire roasted dodo at the table for Starlight, his fond laughter ringing in their ears as they shamelessly fought with Sid for the last drumstick. The sight of Sidurgu’s shite-eating grin after he saved up the extra coin to furnish them with a new set of armor. The gentle tug of Rielle’s hand on their sleeve, insisting they buy a sweet for themselves when they wanted to spoil her with fresh pastries from the Crozier. _

It never seemed like they had a right to the comfort of those indulgences, yet they cannot help but yearn for them. The aforementioned sin of the living, perhaps. They thought Granson terribly naive in what few glimpses they got, but perhaps this fledgling had something of value to say after all. They unfold their arms, their posture relaxing the barest amount.

“Not sure how things work where you’re from, but here, there is no such thing as forgiveness without blood.” Granson finishes, taking a sip out of his tankard. “Still with me, sinner?”

They snort, cocking their head towards the side. “So - better to be a filthy sinner than one of those sinless bastards, is that it?”

“Aye, you've the right of it. So I’ll ask you again: have you sinned?” He asks, flashing a crooked smile before he pulls out a pouch of coin. “I've still got the bounty from taking Dikaiosyne’s head. You ought to have a share of it too, since you helped.”

They give an exaggerated sigh before finally relenting. “No point in offering food to a  _ ghost,”  _ Fray starts, and watches in amusement as Granson balks at the word, “but if you insist. I’ve sins aplenty, so what’s one more?”


	2. living shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Living Shadow
> 
> “Twenty-four seconds.” The Warrior of Light murmurs. Twenty-four breaths. Twenty-four heartbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fray/Sid and ambiguous WoL, Slight angst but mostly comfort/healing, post-ShB

“Twenty-four seconds.” The Warrior of Light murmurs.

Twenty-four breaths. Twenty-four heartbeats. Twenty-four ticks of the rusted chronometer in Ompagne’s study.

The warrior of light stands in the spacious center of the room with nothing but worn wood beneath their feet. The room is only half-lit with a lantern, but the warrior can tell it has been meticulously maintained. The tomes and scrolls are neatly organized on the assortment of shelves, with little dust to irritate their nose. Sidurgu’s doing, most likely. They think he has less to do these days when the state of Ishgard continues to change outside. 

The au ra in question leans against one wall of dark wood, making a soft hum of acknowledgement. 

“But - I’d say that’s the lower end of the scale. It’s difficult to sustain such a summoning in the midst of battle.” They quickly add, their brow furrowing as they turn towards Sid. “I could give you twice- no, thrice the amount, if it was the only thing I used my aether for-”

_ That’s more than enough.  _ Fray says, gently echoing in the confines of their skull. The warrior’s words die in the back of their throat.

Sid seems to agree, when he awkwardly claps a hand on their shoulder. “It doesn’t matter how long. Hells- you don’t even have to do this in the first place, if it takes that much of a toll on you. I’d rather you not collapse on the floor I just swept.”

“But I want to.” They shrug off his hand with a slight pout. “For both of you.”

_ Stubborn, _ Fray affectionately chides them. Sid reads the determination plain in their gaze and steps away with a nod.

The scene is crookedly familiar. Two apprentices once stood in the same spot, etching runes into the wood with a nub of chalk or charcoal for bells on end. It was here they first brushed the surface of the abyss while under the tutelage of a knight who fell from grace. Fray had taken to the symbols easily, always a quick study and eager for more. Sid had a harder time with the magicks when his runes were sloppily scrawled and smudged, but Ompagne was ever patient with him while Fray never left his side. The secondhand memories pass through them like a ghost, drawing forth a shiver of anticipation that trails down their spine.

They privately steel themselves. The warrior closes their eyes and calls for Fray.

Their other half rises to the surface of the abyss without hesitation, nearly breaching the dark waters. The warrior’s breast feels fit to burst, churning and swelling like the sea, and they lurch forth from the obtrusive sensation. Still, they gently gather Fray from between their ribs when they begin to leak out. Their heart in their hands, burning with a love that could sear their palms with the force of it. Fray is a glob of tar between their fingers, dripping onto the floorboards like viscous, coagulated blood.

They can feel Sid’s eyes on them, curious. Moons ago, Myste took part of their crystal to summon shades from their scattered memories. But this is different; instead of drawing upon the aether held within their soul crystal, the warrior uses their own wellspring of aether. They wonder how many dark knights have done this - to carve out a piece of their own writhing abyss, and to give it to the dying will that guided them. Not many, if the way Sid’s bright eyes are transfixed on them is any indication. 

They hold their hands out before them in an offering. The abyss squirms and snakes on the ground, turning into dark runes that stain the wood. It forms a circle of script, the sight any dark knight is intimately familiar with. Fray rises from the center as night incarnate - the light of the lantern in the room cannot breach them when they are composed of pure shadow,

The shackles of the abyss fall away like dark feathers, scattering on the ground and disappearing into nothingness. It is just them in the mercurial shape of the last thing they could remember of themself.

Irises of molten gold settle on the warrior in mute acknowledgement. Twenty-four seconds. Fray counts by the number of shared heartbeats. Sidurgu’s breath hitches noticeably from his spot along the wall before he steps forth. He towers over them just like they remember. They were irritated when his growth spurt overtook them in the midst of training, but now they find a vague comfort in the way his form casts a shadow around them.

“Fray?” Sid asks, eyes wide. He reaches out, claws recoiling at the last second, unsure if he would be able to touch them.

“Just a parlor trick I taught them. But it’s as much of me as I can be right now.” They hastily shrug to disguise the way his sudden scrutiny has unnerved him. “I’m  _ mostly _ solid, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

His gaze lowers in thought, and they cannot read the expression that darkens his eyes when his unruly hair hides them from the world. Disappointment, maybe, that they were not yet flesh and blood. They often proclaimed they were naught more than a shadow in life, but part of them regrets it now that they've truly become intangible. They wait in silence, wondering how many seconds will pass until Sid says anything more or leaves them to sink back into the depths.

_ One heartbeat. Two heartbeats- _

The arms wrapping around them catch them fantastically off-guard.

Fray expected an awkward, stumbling comment of awe at best at this new trick. But Sidurgu pulls them into his chest without warning, nearly causing them to trip over their own feet. His grip is careful where it digs into pliant void, as if Fray is terribly frail and would fall apart from anything more. Still, Sid presses them as close to his own body as he can. The faux faceplate of Fray’s barbut nestles in the crook of Sid’s neck, brushing the scratchy scales there. He exhales a shuddering sigh from above them, his chin resting atop their head.

They may not have been anticipating this, but they cannot deny they so shamelessly want it for themself. In life, they hated to be touched, only making concessions for a select few, and Sid took care to never overstep those boundaries. Now, they greedily drink in the warmth from Sidurgu’s pale skin, the weight of his form against theirs, and the off-tempo pulse of his heart. It is different from Myste’s meddling or their usual affairs. Here, they are not a mere phantom made of shimmering, dissipating aether, nor are they merely an undercurrent beneath someone else’s skin, each sensation slightly dulled and diluted. Sid holds their soul in his grasp, and they can feel the fathomless yearning he imparts into their murky body. 

_ I miss you. _

It is nearly too much to bear, reverberating around their core. Their cutting wit and brash tongue fail them in this moment. They lack the words to form a teasing remark or a half-oblique confession, simply raising their arms and returning the desperate, fragile embrace. They bury themself in his collar and let their golden eyes slip shut. They wish they could melt into Sid’s hold and stain him like an ink blot, to seep into his blackened, lonely soul so they would never have to let go.

The quiet of their master’s study offers a sense of nostalgia between the scent of aging parchment and creak of the floorboards. For a moment, they can pretend that they are back in those halcyon days, in the calm between storms. They can pretend they are alive and whole, instead of a ghost visiting from the grave. Fray overflows with emotion without a proper vessel. They tremble slightly from the effort of maintaining their shape, threatening to turn into a pool of pitch again.

The warrior is a patient audience, their chest aching with Fray’s when they watch the scene with a slight smile. But even this has its limit - twenty-four seconds is a painful eternity and the blink of an eye all at once. 

The ritual circle is undone, the runes fade, and the wispy shadow holding them together evaporates into nothingness. Sid gently releases them when he notices their form fading. There is a tender fondness in his gaze, a brief glimpse they manage to catch before they fall from one smothering embrace into another. The warrior’s heart beckons them back, and they sink, exhausted but filled to the brim with love, back into the cradle of the abyss.


	3. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — Day 3: Family
> 
> A morning in the Orl household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRKfam fluff, Post-ShB, Minor WHM quest spoilers, slight WoL/Sid if you want to interpret it that way

Do moments like these last forever, they wonder.

The sleepy stillness of winter envelops the room and time seems blissfully frozen, save for the way their breath rises and falls from where they are cocooned by downy blankets on a lumpy mattress. The rays of the mid-morning sun permeate the dingy window across from them, casting spotty flecks of light on the covers that they watch with mild interest. These interludes are few and far in between - rarely are they truly relaxed, and unconcerned with the world outside. 

Their quarters could be significantly more luxurious, if they willed it. House Fortemps always kept its hearth lit for them. Count Edmont welcomed them with open arms each time they returned to Ishgard despite his numerous duties. They could indulge in the finest of Ishgardian hospitality when Artoirel insisted on inviting them for dinner, or when Emmanellain pestered them to accompany him to the nearest tavern. They could have dined on the succulent, glazed flesh of a freshly roasted fowl, savored an exquisite casket of wine, and laid their head on the fluffiest pillows in all of Coerthas.

But they much prefer this - retreating to a shabby house hidden in the Brume where no one can find them. The opulence of Fortemps manor is too stifling for them, regardless of the good intentions beckoning them inside. The trappings of noble etiquette were akin to having a chirurgeon extract a rotten tooth. It was why they showed up on Sid’s doorstep without warning instead, unable to hide their tired grin when he hastily pulled them inside, as if they would disappear on the spot if he didn’t gather them in his grasp. The simple dinner he cooked for them and Rielle was more delicious than any extravagant cuisine, and sharing a slightly too-small bed with Sid was a much-needed reprieve from spending another night alone.

There is no sleeping au ra next to them now, however. Sid was an early riser, and the vague scent of tea from the kitchen confirms it. They exhale a small sigh; part of them wishes he was still beside him. They may be cozily swaddled in a nest of blankets, but they find an indelible solace in the warmth of his body and the unspoken assurance that he is  _ here. _ A tail shyly wrapping around their ankle, an arm slung around their hip in his sleep - they don’t mind being tangled with him, even if he seemed embarrassed each time they woke in an imperfect mess of limbs and sheets.  _ Consequences of only having two beds in the house, _ Fray once mentioned, barely making an effort to stifle their amusement.

It only takes that bit of reminiscing to sorely miss the other. The warrior decides that braving the cold without the armor of several blankets is worth it to pester the au ra enjoying a peaceful morning. They slip out of the bed, valiantly suppress their shivers, and venture out of the bedroom.

They find him at the kitchen table, sipping from a cup of steaming tea and absently reading a flyer as he stares out the half-drawn window. He looks picturesque like this, soft in the morning rays, framed by the glow of the sun. In this gentle light, his tousled hair looks like the wool of a karakul, and the warrior finds themself wanting to pet his untamable locks.

They suppress the urge, thankfully. “Morning,” they say softly as they approach the table.

Sid hums in return and sets down his cup when they pull out a chair. “Did you sleep well? Rielle and I tried our best to stitch up those blankets before the weather turned, but…”

“Yes. Best sleep I’ve had in moons, actually.” And that wasn't a lie. Saving two worlds and aiding the resistance efforts left them exhausted, but they harbored a lingering anxiety that wove its way into their fitful rest. They wanted to indulge in the calm after the storm, yet the winds remained volatile and cruel.  _ Just how many gods would they have to slay? How many more allies would they lose?  _ Questions often plagued them when they were left to the quiet dwellings of their own mind on the brink of oblivion.

But they seemed momentarily chased away under the familiar roof of their makeshift family - they fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep, untainted by crystal portents. “What's that?” They ask, leaning over to glance at the flyer in Sid’s hand.

“Another recruitment call from the Firmament.” Sid replies airily.

“Are you finally going to help out?” The restoration of the Firmament had begun weeks ago, but Sid had yet to visit. They can think of several reasons for his hesitation - the possibility of being recognized by the Templars he cut down, the threat of Rielle being taken away once again, the sight of his childhood home drawing forth memories… it was why he had no qualms with traversing the rest of Eorzea while still treading carefully in the streets of Ishgard.

“I don’t know.” Trepidation colors his voice and he folds the worn paper in half, placing it out of sight. 

They give him a sleepy smile. “You and Rielle don’t have to worry about being recognized anymore. In fact, I’d say you two would pass as another couple of outlanders with how many adventurers have come to aid the reconstruction efforts.”

“I want to help!” Rielle pipes up from her spot in the doorway, still dressed in the fluffy pajamas and fuzzy slippers she wore to bed. “I’ve become quite adept at weaving these past few moons. Sylphie taught me-”

“I’ll think about it,” He quickly placates her growing excitement, “By the way, what do you want for breakfast?” 

Rielle pouts from the sudden change in subject, but joins the table anyway. “We have pies,” She suggests with a sigh as she plops onto the seat between the warrior and Sid. 

The former had arrived bearing a sack stuffed with as many meat pies and helpings of buuz as they could fit when they first appeared at the door. A parting gift from Cirina, but not one they were confident they could finish before it spoiled. 

Sid shakes his head. “They’re a guest. I ought to at least cook for them even if they brought us enough buuz to last a fortnight.”

The warrior tilts their head in thought. “Hmm… then how about pancakes?” Rielle perks up at their suggestion, despite her efforts to remain slighted.

“Pancakes?” Sid echoes.

“You’re the best at making them.” They say unabashedly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them while I was away.” 

“You don't have to flatter me to get what you want.” Sid huffs under his breath with a slight smile. 

“It helps, doesn't it?” They laugh.

Sid gives a sigh of feigned resignation before he rises from his spot at the table to gather up the ingredients. His tail avidly flicks as he rummages through the cupboards, betraying his eagerness. The warrior covers their grin with one hand; Rielle does the same when she notices. Sid pauses, his brow furrowing at his current stock. “I'll have to see how many fire crystals we have left, but it should be enough-”

“No need,” The warrior rises to help him, making their way towards the aging stove. They flick their wrist and a spark jumps from their fingertips, lighting the leftover kindling in the hearth.

“Always full of surprises, aren't you?” Sid raises a brow as he sets down his armful of flour.

“It's just a bit of thaumaturgy.” They shrug before returning back to their seat.

Rielle neatly sets the table with silverware and slides into one uneven chair as the room starts to fill with the scent of cooking. Where House Fortemps would doubtless regale them with the dryness of Ishgardian politics, Rielle tells them of her travails around Eorzea. She still makes visits to the Fane, where she practices conjury with Sylphie and Gatty, while Sid found a quiet kinship with Alaqa. They occasionally make for Anyx Trine after performing odd jobs for the hunters in Tailfeather, where the dragonets flit and flutter around her, tugging her along to play their strange games. And when Sid is feeling generous or particularly masochistic, they make for the Churning Mists, where Rielle entertains the moogles or lets the echoes of dragonsong on the wind wrap around her.

“Of course, it all seems so ordinary compared to what you did. I can't believe you went to another world!” Rielle says, then cocks her head towards the au ra at the stove. “Sid can't believe it either, and thinks you must have hit your head too hard when you were fighting in Ghimlyt.” 

“What do I have to do, then? Bring him a pixie?” Not that they think Feo Ul would be opposed to accompanying them to the Source.

“A pixie?”

“They’re like moogles, but much worse. Moogles are lazy creatures - pixies are endlessly energetic with the same appetite for mischief, and horrendously fickle besides.” The warrior pauses, their lips twitching upwards. “Sid would get turned into a bush the second he opened his mouth.” 

Rielle giggles. “I don’t mind moogles, but I can’t fathom what a pixie would be like.”

“I heard that,” Sid deadpans as he finally joins them at the table with a fresh stack of pancakes. The sweet steam wafting off of them makes the warrior’s stomach growl, nearly distracting them from the conversation at hand.

“It's the truth.” The warrior retorts, sliding a couple onto their plate. “Either that, or you’d burst a blood vessel from annoyance. They would like Rielle, though.” Just like how they doted on Alisaie and Alphinaud. The girl in question beams at them as she drizzles a helping of syrup on her plate.

“I told you before - if it were anyone else, I'd think they were full of shite.” Sid tells them through before occupying himself with a mouthful of pancake.

“You already think I'm full of shite.” They point out. Mayhap they should think about bringing back more presents from the First. They vaguely wonder if ovim wool is any warmer than yak wool.

“But back to what you were saying before,” Rielle says, sharp as ever, “I want to visit the Firmament, Sid. And I think… I think it's what Fray would want. You two grew up in the Brume, didn't you? I think they would want to see it rebuilt. And for you to see it, too.”

“I’ll come as well.” The warrior offers. “The more hands the better.”

Sid is silent for a long moment, thoughtfully chewing on his forkful of food. Ishgard was changing with the seasons, and the hidden corners that he called home were becoming unrecognizable. He always thought it a dream that the Brume would ever be rebuilt from ashes and rubble, but it was a dream that Fray always held onto, even as they remained cold and pragmatic. 

If they couldn't take part in the future they hoped for as a child, Sid at least owed it to them to see it for himself. And with the warrior -  _ the savior of Ishgard and all of bloody Eorzea _ \- for company, his initial misgivings dissolve the barest amount. Their presence by his side always gave him strength, even in the most mundane of ways.

“I  _ suppose _ we can take a look.” He says, biting back his earlier apprehension. “Provided we don't get swept away by a sea of adventurers and all.”

Rielle noticeably brightens. “Hilda should be helping around; we can find her first so we don't get lost. Now hurry up and finish your pancakes!”

The girl wolfs down the rest of her plate with practiced ease. The warrior watches on, slightly amazed - growing children and their stomachs were not to be trifled with, it seemed. She bounds off after taking her plate away, digging through her wardrobe and hastily brushing her hair.

“And what about you?” Sid eyes them from beneath his shaggy hair. “Are you going to see if you can polish off your plate faster than a girl with the appetite of a dragon?”

The warrior casually toys with their fork in one hand. “Well, I wanted to take my time enjoying them, but we'd best not keep Rielle waiting. She's become quite fearsome, hasn't she? With a mouthful of spitfire to match.”

“Fine, fine.” Sid gives them a crooked half-smile. “Take care of her when she runs out the door, eh? I’ll clean up here.”

“Don’t think you’re getting away that easily - I’d better see you at the Firmament with frozen fingers while making the realm’s best pancakes.” The abyss stirs and swells within their breast, plainly content at the sound of their laughter beneath the roof of their home.


	4. communion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Communion
> 
> In a twist of fate, there is no flying whale to mount nor comrades to share the depths of the ocean with. There is only a small boat, a lonely little thing washed up on the bleached shores of Kholusia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fray/WoL, Angst, Shadowbringers Bad End/Lightwarden AU. POV second person.

In a twist of fate, there is no flying whale to mount nor comrades to share the depths of the ocean with. There is only a small boat, a lonely little thing washed up on the bleached shores of Kholusia.

They did not tell anyone when they left the Crystarium. There was no Alphinaud with words of hope, nor Alisaie to pull them back from the brink. No Thancred with a firm hand nor Y’shtola with a sharp tongue. No Urianger with advice woven from the stars, nor Ryne with big, doleful eyes full of concern.

Just them. And you, even if they can hardly hear you.

A salty breeze saturates the air, the scent reminiscent of their first encounter with the Lord of the Whorl. 

_ (Sent out to their death without a moment’s hesitation and stranded alone in the vicious waters-) _

They’re the one who chose the path this time. They listen to the gulls overhead and the sound of the waves, small rhythms that seem to match the indomitable light pulsing inside of their ribs.

They gaze out towards the horizon and the dark water beckons to them, tugging at something deep in their bones. The light that permeates the clouds is blinding, a reminder of their weakness. So they push the boat out to sea and let the waves carry them away.

They do not look back.

-

Light cannot breach the depths of the water.

It is a small comfort they hold onto as they sink. The waves swallowed them eagerly, sculpted by arcane magics to deliver them to the bottom of the ocean. The dark that wraps around them reminds you of yourself, and for an indulgent moment, you imagine yourself as the one who is embracing them, to stay their aching heart, to keep their despair at bay. Your voice is feeble, drowned out by the tide even in the silent stillness of the ocean.

The Kojin’s blessing lets them breathe and you wonder how many others have fit into their soul. They were gifted so many, yet none could spare them this fate. You hold onto them with all your might as they fall further into the depths.

-

“I wanted to believe that you had become whole again. Or enough that I could entrust the future to you. You were always radiant, even fragmented.” Contempt sits plain in Emet-Selch’s tone, yet there is a softness to his voice. Pity, perhaps, watching them brought to their knees.

You spit profanities at him from your prison of damning light even if it singes your tongue.

“No less glorious and pitiful to watch you sundered yet again.” Emet-Selch laments. He seems uncaring of the way they nearly vomit pale blood onto his shoes. “If I cannot raise you up, then I will be there for your descent.” 

He kneels before them, examining their face. The light has made them feverish, and they can’t be certain they recognize him through their delirium. 

“Come, you must be starving.” He offers his wrist in a flippant wave, his pale flesh bared to them. Aether radiates off of him, pure and raw and sweet. They hiss, curl into themself like a wounded animal. They ignore the way white flecks have started coating their skin, bleaching their scars away.

Emet-Selch’s expression remains unchanged and he clicks his tongue. “Fine, suit yourself. Spiral into madness in pain, if that's what you want. Just try not to cough that bile up onto my clothes.”

-

They learn of Amaurot from the ghosts, who dote on them like a child. They are a soothing presence even when tittering anxiously. They speak in a way that slips past the ringing, holy choir in their head, and you find yourself deeply envious. 

Hytholdaeus makes for a strange confidant when they know they don't belong among the phantoms. They make mention of you once, their sight strong enough to see the frail vestiges of your shadow desperately clinging to them. 

They call for you, finding the aether of their soul crystal stagnant and strange. You answer them, but the light is impenetrable even when you raise your voice in your empty chamber of souls. To them, you are reticent. It sets their fitful heart into a panic.

They wonder if you’ve abandoned them. No, you would never,  _ ever  _ do such a thing. Then they wonder if you’ve been claimed by the light, too. Turned to a stale, choking saccharine, burnt away and warped like the rest of their aether. 

They journeyed to the Tempest to be alone, and thought they were prepared for it - yet the thought of being truly alone, without  _ you, _ frightens them more than any ascian or lightwarden. 

They mourn you, just like they did when you first met. Perfect marble cracks under the force of their anguish, molten gold filling the crevices. You can do naught but watch.

-

“I've sent the Exarch back to the surface.” Emet-Selch informs them, once he’s certain they’re disinclined to leave. “That way he can be among friends when you set to tearing the last of his world apart.”

They keep their distance, because he is still a cloyingly sweet wellspring of aether that taunts the growing hunger at their core. They don't thank him, but they are grateful that the Exarch - no,  _ G’raha _ \- cannot see them like this. Their skin is unnaturally flawless and loved with gold rivulets, possessed of a sickly glow that reminds them of their imminent divinity.

They stiffly nod before retreating to their borrowed quarters in Achora Heights.

They wrap themself in the soft sheets of their personal suite, a futile attempt to quell the writhing light in their eyes. A cocoon of their own making, when they knew another would envelop them soon. The fabric comes away stained with sweet bile after another coughing fit wracks their frame. Your heartbeat stutters in the same way, and you strain to listen, only relaxing when their breath steadies and slows.

They turn their gaze towards the window overseeing all of Amaurot’s spires and towers. The million tiny lights of the buildings dance in the distance. One of their eyes has gone cloudy from corruption, but they are still entranced by the sight. Like a moth drawn to the flame, they follow instinct and stand before the glass. One shaky palm rests flat against it.

_ You stand at the precipice, but do not fear the fall- _

And, oh, do they fall.

The light becomes too much to bear - surging, churning, roiling, under their skin in their final lapse of will. When it does, they see Amaurot in gold, teeming with life, a memory that makes stray tears of longing fall from their eyes. Their soul splinters apart beautifully, and your hoarse screams are muffled when the fragile shards shatter with a deafening noise.

The cracks allow you to finally slip through, manifesting in a pool of pitch at their feet. You quickly gather yourself - you know not what to do, but you want to be by their side.

“I’m here -  _ I’m here. _ ” You cradle them in your arms as they shudder and shake, holding their head to your chest. You hold them because they need you - because  _ you  _ need _ them. _ You are a flimsy shadow in the wake of their light, quickly evaporating as you bask in their radiance. It is painful beyond comprehension, yet you endure being torn asunder if it would allow you to stay just a moment longer.

Can they hear you now? You don't know, but you say the words regardless. “Listen to our voice. Listen to our heartbeat.  _ Listen…” _

Through this tender, violent communion, you taste the visions and portents that flicker through their waning soul. The voices of the Convocation, the halls of Akadaemia Anyder, butterflies flitting around their fingertips, birds born from their palms. They match the gentle wings sprouting from their back, growing and unfolding and blotting out the light in the room.

With a sickening irony at the pit of your stomach, you think of how you always wanted them to be as unfettered as the birds overhead.

They become one of them, sinless and pure and free when they finally ascend.


	5. flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Flowers
> 
> In the countless moons Sidurgu had been gone, his family became flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sid and Fray, dealing with trauma, grief/mourning, comfort, takes place Pre-DRK questline during their apprenticeship. Some headcanons on Xaela lore/religion
> 
> Day 6 will be a separate work due to a rating increase.

He’s a little impressed Fray followed him this far.

In the balmy air of summer, he traverses the rolling hills of Coerthas bearing nothing but a light pack on his person. The afternoon sun beats down on him and while the grasslands offer no cover from dragonspit or the lazy clouds above, the sweeping wind chases away some of the growing heat trapped beneath his traveling cloak. A breeze brushes his messy bangs from his face and he squints towards the horizon, mentally gauging how much further they need to venture. The highlands are endlessly green. Grass, bushes, trees - all of it is a verdant paradise filled with promise. Sid finds it strange to breathe in the warm air of Coerthas when it remained in a permanent winter in his memory.

Fray didn’t ask why he left as soon as the morning sun barely touched the sky. They wordlessly slipped out of the house behind him, soft and silent, and became his shadow. Sid doesn’t know what they’re thinking this time. If they wanted him to stay, they would have berated him for his harebrained endeavor or forcefully dragged him back to Ishgard. Instead, they left a scrap of paper on the kitchen table for Ser Ompagne to find so he wouldn’t worry when he found his apprentices missing. 

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know why he left, either. He supposes it began when Ser Ompagne mentioned the moon would be full in the sky in the coming days. Sid felt the primal, wild urge to flee itching under his scales. A fitful whirlwind overtook him in his own skin when he was caged by stone and spire, and the thought of enduring another day like that seemed unbearable. It was different from the usual restlessness of being sixteen summers old and growing clumsily into a larger frame. Nhaama was calling to him. 

So he ran. Away from the loathing eyes, the Fury’s ceaseless gaze, the temptation of the abyss - in the quiet vastness of the Coerthan plains he feels something close to free.

Fray’s gaze is calm when it settles on him. There is always something fathomless about their golden eyes, but today it doesn’t smolder with their barely-stifled rage. It watches him with a sense of understanding and duty, as if Fray knows why he left better than he does. Mayhap they do - they were beginning to pick up on his habits in that uncannily astute way of theirs, and Sid is unsure if it’s a good or bad thing.

He wonders if they can tell him why they’re making this pilgrimage out to an abandoned corner of Coerthas. They don’t offer any response at his staring save for a questioning look, and they press on.

-

It is nearly dusk when they arrive. The horizon is streaked in orange and dark twilight, undergoing a brilliant metamorphosis when stars begin to crowd the sky.

Sid is unconcerned with the celestial stage turning overhead. What he finds at his feet makes his breath hitch and his knees threaten to give out.

_ A field of overgrown grass and vibrant wildflowers. _

No colorful yurts, no dying cookfires, no half-packed caravans. Just the unforgiving reclamation of nature. Sidurgu thinks this is somehow worse than coming across scorched earth and broken rubble. At least he would have physical proof of that day outside of his myriad scars. Now, he struggles to convince himself it was not just a horrible dream, or something so insignificant that the gods saw fit to easily erase it with the moons.

“Where are we?” Fray finally asks. They stop at Sid’s side where he remains frozen, peering up at him.

“I’m just -” Sid’s tongue stutters when he can’t choke down the emotion, but Fray is patient. Sid swallows and stays his trembling voice. “I’m visiting family, I guess.” 

Fray is silent at that. They’re vaguely aware of the circumstances that led him to take refuge beneath Ser Ompagne’s wing. Sid rarely spoke of it and Fray never asked, even when it became tangled with flickers of hot anger. They don’t give him a pitying look, instead sitting down in the field. They draw their cloak around themself to abate the oncoming chill of night.

Sid soon joins them, but he stretches and lies flat on his back, sending a few petals scattering into the air. He closes his eyes, hoping to feel something other than ticklish leaves brushing his cheek and their sickly sweet aroma. This is where his family was burned and buried. In the countless moons he had been gone, they had all become flowers.

He stills his own breathing. He listens for the sound of their laughter, their prayers, their stories, as if he could somehow find them in the soil. He’d forgotten the sound of it himself, but would know it anywhere. None of it comes. 

Fray shifts beside him, rustling the fabric in their grasp. Their eyes are fixed in the distance - perhaps looking for any sign of stray Temple Knights. “Are you waiting for something?” Fray’s voice draws him from the quiet in his horns. Night falls over the highlands and they are without a lantern in hand. They are undisturbed by it, their gaze still keen under the cover of dark.

“I want to see the moon -  _ Nhaama. _ ” Sid opens his eyes and glances up at the sky, watching the space where she would take her rightful throne. His limbal rings glow softly as the moon rises.

Her procession is slow and majestic. Fray follows her path across the sky, too, as the stars part for her. Sid briefly wonders what they’re thinking about in this moment, when they phase in and out of the night. Fray sometimes feels like they're missing something to make them whole. The monster almost swallowed them up the day Ompagne found them must have run through and bitten a part of them away.

Maybe that's why they seem to melt so easily into the dark, because the hole it left is as black as the night sky. And in this sacred darkness, Nhaama finally rests overhead.

The cold of Coerthas cannot hold a candle to the shiver that courses through him when she floats over this small, mortal body. Nhaama is a low-hanging moon, and Sidurgu basks in her ethereal light and ever-present silence. 

When Sidurgu first peered into the remnants of his charred heart, he was both surprised and relieved by the amount of fury and anger he found inside. The first night Nhaama loomed over him like a stoic ghost, her skin pale like his, he spurned her for letting his family die and for leaving only him to bear the burden. She had no answers for him when he asked why he lived. 

Tonight, Nhaama does the same as she does with each passing moon. Her trusted consort follows in her shadow, her visage veiled in red blood from the hunt. Nhaama is indifference in the worst of ways, offering nothing but a silent judgement when she lingers in the dark sky among twinkling stars. Some naive part of him thought she would finally offer _ something _ if he laid in the grave that was meant for him. All she offers is waning moonbeams on his obsidian scales, her first and only gift to him.

Sidurgu cannot sing her praises, curse her, or beg for forgiveness, for he cannot remember what it was like to hear her names on the lips of his parents and fall asleep to tales of her glory. Nhaama watches over him in the same way Halone does: stony and proud even when dragons set to tearing apart her walls. Her stoicism must have rubbed off on him, at least - he lacks the energy to shed tears in his mourning. 

Instead, he lets out a deep sigh as he continues to fix on the moon, wondering if her scarred face holds anything he couldn’t read from Ishgard. “I kind of regret not joining you in the Fane.” Sidurgu says.

Fray blinks slowly, like a coeurl. “And why’s that? I thought you didn’t care for conjury.”

“I don’t,” Sid agrees, “ but you can commune with nature, can’t you? I wonder what it would have been like to hear something here.” What whispers would the earth hold, what songs would live in each stem and leaf? Would he be able to find memories of his parents that were untainted by that day? Perhaps it was never something he was meant to know.

Fray waves a hand. “It’s only because the Elementals in the Shroud are too godsdamned noisy. They don’t stray this far.” Their gaze softens in the same way it does when Sid wakes from a nightmare. “But I can offer you this lesson from the Fane, even if you've no talent for conjury. Your family lives on in the aether here. They’ve got their arms wrapped around you right now.”

"I know.” Sid’s voice is a hoarse whisper. The earth is silent, but Fray’s words soothe the part of him that has been listening for an echo.

Fray settles next to him in the bed of flowers and they watch Nhaama haunt the sky until dawn.


	6. legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Legacy
> 
> “This isn’t my legacy. All I did was leave behind a skewered corpse and a crystal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fray and Wol, introspection, Small spoilers for Ishgard Restoration; Based off of some npcs you can find while strolling around the firmament
> 
> small fill for the last day! thank you and i hope you enjoyed the miscellany that's been percolating in my brain!

“...Another prism.” The Warrior of Light blankly stares at the neat pouch in their palm. 

Lizbeth’s aching pom or some-such had provided them with the consolation prize after their laborious efforts to furnish the Firmament with the necessary supplies. Their intent is not to be mistaken, however - their goal was to aid the restoration of Isghard first and foremost, for it was a city that held their dearest friends and family. The collection of gaudy prizes was simply a way to kill time between the monotony of crafting with frozen fingers.

“Is it Haillenarte or Durendaire this time?” Fray asks, resurfacing in the back of their mind.

“Does it really matter?” They stuff the pouch into their pack, out of sight. “I’m almost certain the cards are rigged.” 

Fray swells the briefest amount, then ebbs. A shrug. “I’m keeping a tally. I have a bet with Myste and Ardbert, you know.”

The warrior arches a brow as they pull their coat around themself. “Is that the reason you’re swimming around in my soul? So my misery can entertain you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I merely wanted to support my dear student through their trials and tribulations.” The black waves arch, forming a semblance of a cheeky smile. “I know it’s difficult on you.”

“Sod off,” The warrior replies with a bark of laughter, their breath a white puff of dragon’s breath in front of them. The snow stopped falling a bell ago, leaving naught but clearing skies overhead. The warrior rolls their sore shoulders and neck - it seemed to be a perfect time for a well-earned break. Frankly, they’re relieved to shed their craftsman’s tools in favor of hefting their greatsword onto their back again. 

They stray from the makeshift workshop filled with adventurers and craftsmen, instead strolling towards the residential areas of the New Nest. They hadn’t gotten a good look at the architecture for themself due to the constant work, but more importantly, they wanted to bring Fray along while they still remained buoyant on the surface of the abyss.

“Do you see this, Fray? Things are changing in Ishgard. I wanted to show you.” The warrior overlooks one balcony where children play in the frosted yards. “They're moving people from the Brume to the Firmament so they can have a roof over their heads and a hearth to keep them warm.”

Fray makes an absent hum, soaking in the sight. It was strange to think these same children were once hiding between unsteady scaffolding and returning to shoddily built homes while dragons rained spitfire over their heads. There is even a newly-built orphanage visible from their perch - Fray thinks on the one they grew up in, and how it always seemed to be falling apart at the seams. A sense of hope flutters within their chest watching their caretakers usher them inside for a warm meal. No bitterly cold nights, no stringent rations that they would hide and share with the young ones, no threat of being cut down by Templars if they so much as crossed their path the wrong way. These children would be spared that. They are immensely grateful.

“What about Sid and Rielle?” They finally ask.

The warrior’s lips curve into a fond smile. “They weren't so keen on the idea. The house you shared has too many memories, you see.”

They bite their tongue. They want to tell Sid to  _ haul his scaly arse over here _ because Rielle shouldn't have to live in an aging house that gets uncomfortably chilly when the boards let in a draft, or leaks something awful when the snow begins to thaw through rotten wood. But would they have done the same, they wonder, surrounded by the shadows of their youth?

“By the way, what do you think of your legacy?” The warrior asks, leaving them no time to mull over the possibilities. They point towards another group of children in the streets - not orphans, but Brumelings, still, adjusting to their new home. 

Fray recognizes the scene immediately. The child’s stance, no matter how sloppy, is unmistakable. A crowd of spectators, a loyal servant of Halone bearing a sword and shield in hand, and… a dark knight. Almost, anyways - the steel is replaced by scraps of wood, haphazardly chiseled into the approximate shape of a sword. The two are locked in a duel between the judgement of the Fury and the rebellious will of an abyss-stained pariah, leaping and spinning around each other with shrieking laughter.

“This isn’t my legacy. All I did was leave behind a skewered corpse and a crystal.” Fray shrugs again. “I’m not the outlander who swaggered into Ishgard bearing a greatsword, on _ dragonback, _ and cut down the Archbishop in one fell swoop.” 

“You and I both know the memories in this crystal.” The warrior says, unaffected by their attempts at deflection. “You died hoping you could leave something meaningful behind. That your sacrifice would mean something, even if all of Ishgard didn't think it would.”

Ser Ompagne once said that a man truly dies when his name is no longer on the lips of his brethren. Knights lived on in parchment and song. Sowers of chaos faded into the black of night when the dark finally claimed them. It was naive of them to hope that their struggle against the will of the See would leave a mark somehow, but to see it manifest in something as mundane as a child’s fairy tale is stranger than the fearful rumors that circulated throughout the Brume. They finally tear their gaze away as the Templar clutches his breast in excruciating pain, falling to the grass to a chorus of cheers. 

“I’m dead. I know that much.” Fray’s voice hardens. “You needn’t keep treating me like the living.” They don’t know why the warrior was showing them this new Ishgard that continued to grow stranger and further away from their childhood, as if they would be able to take part one day. They had no use for it. It was the reason they stifled the overflowing yearning to be another weapon in their arsenal, their boundless shadow, their solace in the darkest of nights.

“I won't let you fade.” They say, suddenly. Their soul shimmers brightly, always radiant and warm in the abyss. “And if you won’t accept this as part of your legacy, then what about me? I’m carrying it on for you, wouldn't you say?”

They are damnably astute. But Fray supposes it comes with sharing your heart with another to this extent. 

“...You're doing alright. Perhaps overdoing it, even.” Because they’re carrying on the legacies of the countless others that sacrificed themselves, striving for the futures they couldn’t see. They held fast to those fragments of hope, and turned them into something that could bloom and blossom for the generations to come. All because they loved this world and its people too much. They’re reckless, taking on this much of a burden and still wanting to include them in their periphery. 

Naught for it but to help them on their fool’s endeavor. Fray settles back into the mire of the abyss with a sigh.

“Glad to hear.” The warrior smiles gently, like sunbeams filtering through the gray clouds above. They stretch with a satisfied noise. “So - should we stop by the Crozier and pick up something for Sid and Rielle before heading back? I’ve an inkling they’re growing tired of Skybuilders’ Stew…”


End file.
